


Entertain Ideas Royally

by Cinaed



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Roleplay, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 22:17:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4722389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One summer afternoon, Finrod proposes a game of pretend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entertain Ideas Royally

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go out to Stripy for looking this over for me and to sath for encouraging me to write it. 
> 
> The title comes from Mark Van Doren quotation: "Bring ideas in and entertain them royally, for one of them may be the king."

“Do you know,” Finrod said, “I sometimes suspect that you don’t have a curious bone in your body.”

Bëor propped himself up by his elbow and looked down at Finrod, who was sprawled in the grass and basking in the warmth of the summer sun. The jewels upon his throat and threaded through his golden hair glittered and gleamed. Bëor grinned. “Shall I make a lewd jest, my lord, or do you intend a serious discussion?”

Finrod’s nose twitched as he smiled back. Bëor quelled the desire to kiss its freckled tip. “I never object to such jests, my dear, but I _was_ serious. Do you not wonder how things might have gone otherwise? If perhaps Maedhros and Maglor had chanced upon you in that valley instead?”

“No,” Bëor said, as he had answered before. He pretended to consider it deeply, though in truth he had no interest in any possibility in which Finrod wasn’t his lord. Still, he fixed a solemn and thoughtful expression upon his face. “But now that you speak of it, I am grateful that it was your music that woke me instead of Lord Maglor’s. His melodies aren’t half so sweet.”

Finrod’s laughter startled a bird perched in a nearby tree. It flew in circles around the meadow, scolding them. Finrod laughed again, shaking his head. “Flatterer! There are few in Beleriand who would agree with you.” Then his expression changed. He looked a moment at Bëor and said softly, “I’m grateful as well.”

Bëor flushed at the words, still unused to Finrod’s ready compliments even after two years. He touched one of the jewels in Finrod’s hair, a stone nearly as blue as Finrod’s eyes. Then he laughed, remembering those first few weeks of stilted conversation and hand gestures. “Though I wonder if Lord Maglor or Lord Maedhros would have been half as patient while we learned each other’s tongues.”

“My dear cousins are many things, but patient is not one of them,” said Finrod. He sat upright, brushing a few blades of grass from his tunic, his head bent so that Bëor couldn’t see his face. When he looked up once more, he was smiling. “I do sometimes miss your charming efforts to explain a particular word.”

“Perhaps you do, my lord, but I do not. I’m certain I looked a fool.” Seeing the sincere look warm Finrod’s eyes again and knowing that he would say something achingly sweet in another moment, Bëor added hastily, “Though now I wonder what would have happened if you’d come upon us a day later. I had planned to scout ahead on my own.”

“Truly?” Finrod looked delighted, and then intrigued. “So I might have come upon you all alone in the woods.”

Bëor laughed at the idea. “Aye, perhaps! And what would you have thought of some lone traveller, I wonder, with neither song nor cheerful fellowship to recommend him?”

Now Finrod wore a speculative expression Bëor knew well, and he was unsurprised when Finrod said, “Perhaps we should make a game of it and see.” He waved a hand towards the nearby forest. “Here are similar woods, after all. Let us pretend to have a new first meeting.”

“I’m not one for pretending, my lord,” Bëor said. “Such play is for children, and I am hardly that.” A mischievous look blossomed upon Finrod’s face and Bëor, grinning, forestalled his jest with a kiss to Finrod’s throat, just above his shining necklace. “Besides, you weren’t so adorned when we first met. These baubles would be too distracting.”

“Baubles!” Finrod cried. Another peal of laughter escaped him, and he half-covered his face with his hand, shaking his head. “Baubles!” he said again. “Careful, lest any dwarf of Nogrod hear you name the Nauglamir such.”

Bëor looked a moment at Finrod, drinking in his fond expression. He shrugged at last, smiling as well, though he had spoken seriously and hadn’t intended such mirth. “I meant no offence to their work, for it is indeed very fine. It’s only that you are fairer than any jewel, and far more precious.”

Unexpectedly, Finrod sobered. His mouth twisted as though tasting something bitter. “If all agreed with you that people were dearer things than jewels, this world would be a better place, dear heart.”

Pained by the sorrow that touched Finrod’s expression, Bëor kissed him in apology. He knew not how he’d misspoken, but clearly his words had reminded Finrod of some grief. To distract him, Bëor said, “If you still wish to play at strangers, go and put your jewels away. I’ll wait for you in the woods.”

The shadow eased from Finrod’s face. He bounded to his feet, offering Bëor a hand upright. Once they stood side by side, Finrod pressed a kiss to the back of Bëor’s hand. “I won’t keep you waiting long, I promise.”

Stepping away, Bëor bowed and grinned. “I look forward to it, my lord.”

 

* * *

 

Bëor wandered the forest outside Nargothrond, taking care not to travel too far. He had no wish for the afternoon to end with Finrod having to send out others to find him.

Instead he picked his way carefully over roots and past the moss that covered most of the tree trunks, bending occasionally to look at the blue flowers that had bloomed in the faint sunlight. They had a pleasing scent, sweet without being overwhelming, and he wondered if after the silly game Finrod might wish to bring an armful back with them to his bedchambers.

He was thus absorbed in thought when he heard the rustling of the undergrowth. A few years of safety had not yet banished the instincts born of dangerous decades; Bëor caught himself reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there even as Finrod stepped around a tree and paused at the sight of him.

Bëor’s hand fell to his side, and he was struck with the same wondering joy he always felt at the sight of Finrod after even a brief absence. Shadow and dappled sunlight fell upon Finrod’s face, yet Bëor could see the puzzled slant of that beloved mouth.

With a start, Bëor realised he’d forgotten their game. The Balan of old would indeed have stared, but with less joy and more bewildered awe. He attempted such a look, though play-acting came unnaturally to him. Then he remembered how he’d felt, awakening to see Finrod lit by firelight and playing his harp, how wonder had held him spellbound and certain that a Vala had come amongst them.

The look of awe came more easily now, though he still felt a little foolish. He held up his hands to show he was unarmed and said slowly, fumbling for the right words, “Pardon me, o Vala, if I trespass.”

“Vala?” Finrod said. His brow creased, and then, as he had at their true first meeting, he laughed. The sound rang through the forest, and some of Bëor’s discomfort eased. Finrod shook his head, smiling.

When Finrod took a step closer, Bëor saw that he was wearing much the same as he had that first night: hunting clothes and the barest amount of jewellery. His naked throat was almost shocking after seeing the Nauglamir so recently upon it. His eyes shone brightly, and Bëor belatedly remembered that he should be nervous of their glow.

He knelt, his hands still raised in supplication. A stick pressed sharply against his knee, but he ignored it. “No Vala then,” he said, gazing up at Finrod. “But you cannot be an enemy. Are you here to welcome me and my people to this land?” His voice betrayed him a little then, remembering his disappointment at learning he had not brought his people to safety after all, merely to less dangerous lands and new enemies.

Finrod’s brow creased and then smoothed as he pretended to not understand. Smiling, he gestured for Bëor to stand.

Bëor refused to move. Well he recalled how he had sat and stared like Finrod’s music had turned him to stone. He’d not dared to move lest he find himself dreaming and in wakening lose the dream forever. If he had felt so with Finrod’s attention upon his harp and divided amongst the whole company, how could he stand with the weight of Finrod’s entire focus upon him?

Finrod laughed and approached him. His feet were seemingly soundless upon the earth, and as always Bëor marvelled at the sight. Finrod’s hand was very cool against his cheek, and Bëor didn’t have to feign his shudder. Longing warmed him.

“Peace,” Finrod said, and smiled so sweetly that Bëor almost sighed. “I am your friend, or wish to be.” Voice soft as though he mused aloud to himself, he added, “I haven’t seen your like before. Your beard is almost as fine as a dwarf’s, and yet you are not of that race. What are you, I wonder, and where do you hail from?”

Bëor wondered if these were the same words Finrod had said years before in his then-unfamiliar tongue. He blinked up at Finrod, as though he’d forgotten every Sindarin word he’d been taught, and said nothing.

When Finrod’s hand dipped to stroke Bëor’s beard, his manner curious and seemingly innocent, desire surged in Bëor. Without thought, he leaned forward and kissed Finrod’s fingertips, earning a startled noise. As Finrod made to draw back, Bëor caught his wrist with a light clasp and kissed the back of his hand.

“Is that how you greet strangers?” Finrod asked, sounding amused and a little breathless. “What a strange custom!”

Bëor kissed his knuckles, as one might swear fealty, and looked up once more. Finrod’s eyes were even brighter than before, and a slight smile played upon his mouth. Bëor let his gaze heat with a look that needed no translation and then kissed Finrod’s knuckles again, slowly.

Finrod laughed, amusement shifting to surprised delight. His other hand combed through Bëor’s hair, settling upon the nape of his neck. There he rubbed his thumb just as slowly as Bëor had kissed him, and grinned at Bëor’s sigh.

“Now, how shall I answer you in welcome?” Finrod mused, still stroking Bëor’s neck. Then he bent and kissed Bëor, a kiss that began soft and almost chaste and ended with such heat that Bëor groaned at the parting of their lips.

When Bëor opened his eyes, Finrod was half-kneeling before him. His one hand was still cool against Bëor’s neck, his thumb still making that slow sweep over his skin. Finrod’s other hand now lifted to touch the embroidered leaves at the neck of Bëor’s tunic.

Then Finrod rose and began to disrobe. He did it in silence, slipping out of his shoes and draping his tunic and breeches and the rest of his clothing over top of them. He revealed his pale skin slowly until he stood before Bëor in only his circlet and the earrings. Then he tilted his head and smiled an invitation.

With a start, Bëor realised that he had been staring like one ensnared. Now he returned to himself, feeling again the stick jabbing painfully into his knee and, more pleasantly, the heavy arousal between his legs. Heat briefly warmed his face. He felt a fool again even as satisfaction widened Finrod’s smile. Standing, Bëor tugged almost violently at his tunic, dropping it at his feet.

“Slowly, slowly,” said Finrod, laughing and catching Bëor’s arm as he fumbled with his breeches. He stroked his hand down Bëor’s side and grinned as Bëor grumbled wordlessly. “There’s no haste.” Then he began to help Bëor undress, if his caresses could be called aid and not distraction.

At last Bëor was naked, even more than Finrod, for he wore jewellery only at Finrod’s request and even then rarely, disliking their weight. He had worn none today. Now he was free to answer Finrod touch for touch. He ran his hand down Finrod’s belly and felt the muscles leap as Finrod laughed.

Before he could reach what he sought, however, Finrod caught his wrist.

Bëor frowned, wondering what Finrod played at now, for his caresses had affected them both. But it seemed his lord was in the mood for slow love-making, Finrod kissing him leisurely, stroking his hands over Bëor’s back as though relearning the shape of him.

When Finrod’s hands dipped lower, Bëor encouraged him by pressing into his grip. He kissed Finrod’s throat, rubbing his bearded cheek against it in a way he knew Finrod enjoyed, and grinned as Finrod lightly slapped his flank.

“Slowly,” Finrod said again, laughing even as he scolded. An instant later he gave the lie to his own words by tugging Bëor closer, his cock hard against Bëor’s thigh. He rubbed once, twice against Bëor, the pleasure of it making Bëor’s knees weak. Then he drew away again, turning towards their piles of clothes.

Distracted as he was by the sight of Finrod bending, it took Bëor a moment to realise that Finrod had something in his hand. Then he recognised the vial and shouted with laughter. “A fine welcome indeed!”

Finrod held up the vial, smiling his question.

In answer Bëor knelt, brushing aside a few rocks and sticks, before he settled himself as comfortably as he could on his hands and knees. He resisted the urge to touch himself, though his arousal was now closer to pain than pleasure. Slowly, Finrod had said, though Bëor had pretended not to understand, and so slowly it would be, for all that Bëor was afire with longing.

He closed his eyes at the first touch of Finrod’s fingers, slick and cool from the oil. The sweet pressure was familiar, and yet Bëor knew he would never tire of it. Pleasure moved through him again and again as Finrod teased him gently with his fingers.

Finrod dropped a kiss between his shoulder-blades, and did something with his fingers that made Bëor swear and laugh all at once. Then the fingers were gone.

Finrod’s hands settled upon Bëor’s hips. Bëor groaned in relief as Finrod slid into him, his prick an even greater pleasure than his fingers. Again Finrod teased, pushing deeper little by little, until at last Bëor broke and arched against him, needing more.

At Finrod’s laugh, Bëor growled, “If you say slowly again, I shall--” The rest of his threat went unsaid, for Finrod tightened his grip upon his hips and began to thrust in earnest. Bëor groaned, and Finrod took it for encouragement, thrusting harder.

Bëor was close now. He turned his head, wanting to see Finrod’s face, but only saw flashes of Finrod’s gold hair. “Please,” he said, and sighed as Finrod’s hand curled around his cock. Finrod's fingers were still slick with oil, the tempo of his strokes perfect, the pressure exactly as Bëor loved best. He held off for as long as he could, wanting the moment to last. All too soon Bëor's climax shuddered through him.

When he returned to himself, Finrod was still hard within him. He adjusted his weight, the better to seize Finrod’s hand. Bëor kissed Finrod’s wrist, tasting salt and his own release. As he nipped at the pulse-point, Finrod laughed, a high clear sound, and came.

Afterwards Finrod stretched out languidly next to him. They both turned so that they were face to face, close enough to kiss. Finrod’s cheeks were flushed, his smile soft. He stroked Bëor’s shoulder with light fingers. The corners of his eyes crinkled and he said, “A very fine meeting, I think!”

Bëor stared. Then abruptly he remembered Finrod’s silly game. Laughing, he said, “Aye, and no child’s play.” At Finrod’s satisfied look, he narrowed his eyes playfully. “Was this your intention all along, my lord? Or do you always carry such useful vials with you?”

“The possibility had crossed my mind,” Finrod admitted, smiling. He pressed a kiss to Bëor’s shoulder as Bëor chuckled.

“There are surely easier ways to get me into bed.” Bëor smiled when Finrod wrinkled his nose at him and feigned an expression of disappointment. He added, “Not that I’m objecting, mind you.”

Finrod tilted his head. The speculative look from before touched his features. “Oh? Would you do it again?”

Bëor laughed. “Aye, why not?” A thought struck him, and he grinned. “My beard is not as fine as a dwarf’s, you said, but I can play-act one all the same. Perhaps I shall be the dwarf you thank for the Nauglamir.”

Finrod laughed helplessly, dropping his face to Bëor’s chest. Slapping Bëor’s shoulder, he cried, “Enough! Telchar would have your head to hear you blaspheme so.” When he raised his head, there were tears in his eyes. Another laugh slipped free before he said, attempting sternness, “I begin to think you find some fault with my necklace, to mock it twice.”

“It offends me,” said Bëor, very gravely. “It and I are at war for your throat, and too often the Nauglamir proves the victor.” So saying, he pressed a kiss to Finrod’s pale throat.

Finrod shook with laughter. His hand caught at Bëor’s hair and held him fast. Bëor contented himself with tracing a line of kisses across Finrod’s throat. Breathlessly, Finrod said, “Oh, stop. If you keep doing that I shall be tempted to lock the Nauglamir away for a decade.”

Bëor grinned. “I like the sound of that.” He retraced the line of kisses once more, taking his time. “But some might believe you’ve lost the bauble. The dwarves would surely take offence then.”

“I’ll risk it, my dear,” Finrod said, his hand light upon Bëor’s hair.


End file.
